One Hundred Ninety-Nine

Last year, I ran. A lot. Running became a tonic, an escape, a medicine, an out; and eventually, a necessity to my mental well-being. At the end of it all, I stated a goal of 200 runs for 2012.

Thanks to a lot of anal record-keeping, unusually warm weather, and a gym membership; as of today, my total stands at 199 runs. They've come in all varieties.

• The breathless, weightless, wind-at-your-back feeling that propelled me to my first sub-35:00 five-miler.

• The July afternoon, heat index of 108, sweat rolling off my body in undulating sheets, the post-run stretch a constellation of droplets pouring onto my porch with the slightest motion of body.

• The busy weekend, accelerating to pass a waddling stroller-parent combo, or gel-pack sporting, headphone-wearing, all-weather clad chump; I love it when my breathing rate doesn't increase even when speeding up.

• The slow slog into a biting wind, wiping away tears from the cold, while still digesting a thick knot of honey ham and turkey breast...ah, the day-after-Thanksgiving run.

My favorite? The zen run where you lock into a pace, hold it, and feel like you're not even moving, like you're on an invisible conveyor stretching to some foreign horizon, feet slapping down on asphalt feels healing and restorative, like you're running on cotton balls or grass as plush as the ChemLawn-funk smelling yard down the block. One of these runs every two weeks is a blessing, a reminder why I run. And it's still an essential part of my mental well-being. The only things I spent more time doing in 2012? I'd wager on eating, cooking/planning meals, and sleeping.

(199 runs, 906.5 miles. For those keeping track at home...er, me.)

(Part of SmallBox's ThinkKit project.)

Brining & the Art of Unplugging

Ever since I waded into the ever-deepening smartphone pool (this February)...unplugging has been tougher and tougher. One morning tradition that I have been able to keep this entire year is not checking my work e-mail & not using a computer before I get to work; in the mornings, I rise, do some body weight exercises, cook & eat breakfast, and read print (usually the New Yorker; sometimes a book).

I feel like this keeps me mentally balanced–not to mention, for a person who writes at work, starting your day with the best writing around helps me begin the day on the right foot. Er...left hand. I get to focus on the occasional stirring of a sticky pot of steel cut oats, sprinkling cranberries in before it's done, slathering a messy pat of butter on toast–and then not worrying about my greasy fingers while I turn pages printed on the same pulp we've been holding for centuries.

Tonight, we unplugged a bit, and had a rare family dinner with my brothers, all of whom now live in the city for the first time in 10 years. My older brother had brined a chicken, and we sat around the table eating it and homemade pasta, root vegetables and red table wine, licking fingers and passing the decanter, with the TV off and phones (mostly) to the side.

The chicken-skin, salt-soaked and crackly, shone on top of the bird. Brining takes time, preparation, and two basic elements of the earth, a past art that no one should have an excuse not to know about; I suspect it'll be around long after us & our scourge of smartphones have passed to some other part of the cosmos. And yet, I had neither brined, nor tasted a brined bird. Which I now recognize was 28-plus years of foolishness.

Table dinners were a staple of my youth, but now I feel as though they're a special occasion. I'd like to carve more time out like my mornings–I've thought of declaring one night a week a "writing night", where I can hole up somewhere with a blanket, or beer, and get some words down without being buzzed by a monitor, phone, screen...

Three unplugging goals:

1. Weekday mornings.
2. One night a week–writing.
3. Table dinner–once a week.

(Part of SmallBox's ThinkKit project.)